


song of the shepherd's dog

by thatsparrow



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 04:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12645714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: There are two things he does remember about that moment, and he holds onto them with pride even as his back and stomach start developing a patchwork quilt of blue and purple bruises. He knows that for all the hits he took, he managed to land a couple swings early on, lashing out with fists and feet and paying no attention to form and earning a few solid connections for his efforts.And he knows that the dog got away — pulled their attention away from it to himself long enough that it could slink off through the grass and bolt for the safety of the surrounding woods.--Or, a collection of moments from Magnus' past feat. dogs





	song of the shepherd's dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bowerbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowerbird/gifts).



> i was asking a friend of mine for one-shot prompts and one of her requests was: "magnus & dogs. magnus with one million dogs. they land on a dog planet" and that's exactly my kind of content
> 
> that said, a quick and fluffy story about mags and dogs probably didn't need to be 5k words and so I'll be the first to admit I may have gotten a little carried away
> 
> title from "wolves" by iron & wine

He's ten years old and sitting in the branches of a tree—unskilled hands carving a crooked 'M' into one of the upper boughs with the half-dulled edge of a hand-me-down pocket knife—when he hears the laughter from a handful of voices coming from somewhere below him, followed closely by the quiet yelp of something small and scared.

Magnus has the knife tucked back into his belt and starts shimmying down to the lower branches before he can stop to think about what he's doing, moving fast enough to catch a splinter somewhere in his palm and summer-melted sap sticking fast to his skin, except he can't be bothered to notice or care about any of that just now. As soon as he's close enough to the springy tufts of yellow-green grass sprouting up around the trunk, he lets go of his hold on one of the branches and drops straight to the ground, landing a little unsteady and feeling the impact hard in his knees and focusing instead as much as he can on the source of the noise coming from the bushes in front of him. And then there's another burst of laughter that cuts through the quiet air to where Magnus is standing, the sound mean and harsh like sandpaper scraping against metal, and he hears that sharp yelp again except there's _pain_ in it this time and Magnus doesn't need any other reasons to go rushing headfirst through the brambles.

When he finishes stumbling through branches that dig shallow scrapes into his arms, he's in the middle of a small glade, empty save for the three boys Magnus must have heard standing a few feet in front of him, forming a rough half-circle around something cowering on the ground between them.

"Hey!"

They look up at the sound of his yell, pulling back enough from where they'd been clustered together that Magnus can catch sight of the target between their feet — this small scrap of a mongrel thing, one ear bent something funny and an unsteady limp in one of its paws, brindled fur matted in a half-dozen places and stained with patches the color of dark cranberry-red from slow-bleeding cuts along its side. And there's nothing but fear in the dog's bright brown eyes and twice-broken tail tucked between its legs and Magnus feels an anger he didn't even know he _could_.

"You think this is any of your fucking business, kid?" One of the boys calls at Magnus, narrowing his eyes and taking a few steps forward. "Quit trying to play the fucking hero and run on home before you catch a beating you don't wake up from."

They're all watching him now, staring at where he's standing with hands balled tight into small fists and mouth set in a determined line and shoulders trembling at the adrenaline running hot through his muscles. And it's clear they're waiting for him to turn tail and run, but Magnus doesn't — _won't_. Instead he stands them down with a bravery he doesn't feel, only realizing once they draw closer that they've all got more than a few extra inches and pounds of muscle on him and there's no way he's walking away from this without some new collection of bruises.

He doesn't remember much once the hits start coming, and later he'll realize that's maybe a blessing. Doesn't remember much beyond that first set of knuckles splitting the skin under his eye and the bright white burst of pain and how fast the other boys fell on him as soon as it started. Doesn't remember ending up on the ground, but figures he must have, because when they finally lose interest and walk off with one last parting gift of a kick to the ribs, he's curled up in a ball with his cheek pressed into the dirt and pebbles digging indents into the skin of his palms and he's staring up at the twin suns overhead through one eye that's rapidly swelling shut. And it's an effort like no other to pull himself back to his feet and he can feel as soon as he does that he'll need to find some cleric willing to take pity on him and set his cracked and broken bones straight.

Still, there are two things he does remember about that moment, and he holds onto them with pride even as his back and stomach start developing a patchwork quilt of blue and purple bruises — he knows that for all the hits he took, he managed to land a couple swings early on, lashing out with fists and feet and paying no attention to form and earning a few solid connections for his efforts.

And he knows that the dog got away — pulled their attention away from it to himself long enough that it could slink off through the grass and bolt for the safety of the surrounding woods.

After he wakes up the next morning, more of him aching than doesn't, he heads back to that same stretch of forest with a couple strips of jerky snuck from the pantry and spends the next half-hour whistling into the trees and wandering through the underbrush and looking to see if the dog needs help. All he earns for his efforts are a handful of mosquito bites on the back of his neck, but he leaves the jerky just in case the dog is somewhere close by and too frightened to face another human (and Magnus wouldn't blame it if it was — isn't feeling too sold on humans himself just then).

He goes back the next two days anyway—just to be sure—but never sees the dog again. And even if he can't move any part of his body without wincing for over a week after, the whole thing still feels worth it.

 

—

 

He asks his mom a few days later if they can get a dog — that there's always new litters in the city with owners looking to pawn off pups they don't have the time or space to manage, and he'd do all the work so it's not like she'd have to worry about a _thing_ and he has to be old enough by now, and—

But she shuts him down as she changes the bandage for the cut under his eye, her voice as gentle and stern as the hand under his chin keeping his head tilted up towards the light. And Magnus is tempted to argue, but this is a debate they've had before and one he always loses, so he settles for conceding this one and resolves to try again in a couple months.

 

—

 

He's fifteen and leaning up against the sturdy wood frame outside the front door, feet crossed on a walkway of weathered stone and busy sharpening the edge of his second-hand sword when he sees a stray nosing at bins of refuse around the corner. And even from here, Magnus can pick out the sharp edges of ribs showing through its skin and the desperate way it's pawing through the trash and it's not a hard decision to make. Hunting around inside for a moment, he comes up with two empty bowls and a couple sausages he'd been saving for dinner and sets them up near the entrance to the alley where the dog is hunting, filling one to the brim with water and the other with food and keeping his distance as he nudges them a little closer towards the stray.

With that done, he crosses the street again and takes up his former post outside the house, dropping down into his seat and testing the edge of his sword with the callused pad of his thumb before picking up the whetstone. And even though he's got his head turned down towards the sword's still-dulled steel edge, he's watching from the corner of his eye as the stray slinks through piles of discarded trash towards the bowls, sniffing around curiously before wolfing down the meat like it's worried it's going to run away. He's about to pull himself to his feet to give the dog a second serving—because gods know how many meals the thing has skipped in the past couple weeks, but anyone can see it's been too many—when one of the backdoors leading into the alley slams open and sends the starved thing sprinting like a shot down another side street.

It doesn't come back every day, but Magnus keeps an eye out for it over the next couple weeks, putting out food when it shows up nosing somewhere nearby the front door. And eventually it—or, as he finds out, _she_ —gets comfortable enough to approach him directly, sometimes curling up in the shade while he trains, or thumping her tail appreciatively as she lets Magnus scratch the fur behind her ears. Over time, Magnus watches as the lines of her too-skinny frame start to fill out a little more that the bones aren't visible through the skin, coat picking up a new sheen and steps healthy as she pads through the streets. Sometimes she'll tag along as he goes to run errands or spends an afternoon wandering through empty roads and he gets used to the sound of her soft panting keeping in time with the rhythm of his footsteps, trailing just behind like she's part of his shadow.

And there are quiet nights where he'll sit cross-legged behind the house, back propped up against the wood shed and head tilted up towards the purple-tinted night and she'll be there curled up next to his hip, chest rising and falling slowly, a warm and steady weight against his side.

He's careful never to name her, though, and tells himself it hurts that much less when she's gone for a couple days, and then a week, and then doesn't come back at all.

 

—

 

He's twenty-three and making his way back to the IPRE dorms after another long night of training when he hears a quiet keening noise coming from somewhere nearby. And even though it's somewhere close to midnight, and he's nine different kinds of exhausted, and there's a sharp chill biting into the skin at the back of his neck, Magnus doesn't have the heart to just _ignore_ it. So he stops short on the path cutting across the campus and turns the toes of his boots towards where the sound seemed to be coming from, taking a couple steps closer and keeping his ears open and wishing—the same way he always does when he's going toe-to-toe with Lucretia or Barry or either of the twins—that he had just a couple of spells up his red-robed sleeves.

But since all he's got is the battle-axe strapped to his back and so can't suss out the source of the sound with an easy wave of his fingers, he has to settle for shutting his eyes and filtering out the ambient noise and waiting until he hears the noise again — setting off at a jog towards the soft baying coming from the cluster of buildings to his left. Once he's drawn close, he trades in the doubletime beat of his boots for something a little more cautious, pretty sure the noise is coming from something hurt and hurt bad enough to be crying out and so the last thing he wants to do is scare it off.

It doesn't take long for him to find the dog, curled up under the shelter of a discarded pallet and licking tenderly at an ugly looking stripe of half-healed skin on a leg that doesn't look like it's sitting at quite the right angle.

"Easy," Magnus says, voice soft and hand outstretched towards where the thing is eyeing him cautiously, wishing he had any food to buy some of the dog's trust and hoping him on his own will somehow be good enough. It noses a tentative snout against his fingertips before drawing back, not exactly offering a ringing endorsement but not snapping at his hand either and, honestly, Magnus is pretty sure it's the best he's going to get. And it's clear as anything the dog needs a healer and needs one _fast_ and while Magnus knows enough by now to patch up his own scrapes and keep himself going after a fight, he doesn't trust his own hands to deal with the mess of a leg the dog clearly can't even walk on.

Lucky as all hell there's a cleric living back in the dorms who might be able to help.

Slowly, carefully, he manages to coax it out from under its lean-to shelter and bundle it up into the red fabric of his jacket, watchful not to jostle its injured leg too much as he hoists it into his arms and cradles it against his chest, setting off at a speed-walk for the dorms.

"Merle?" He calls in a half-whisper, balancing the dog with one arm as he knocks a couple quick times against the wood (finally redirected to the right door after disturbing a bleary-eyed Taako, seemingly oblivious to the dozing stray in Magnus' arms). "Hey, Highchurch — you in there?"

There's no response right away, and for a moment the whole thing starts to feel like a mistake — they've all only been at the Institute a couple weeks at this point and it's not like he really _knows_ Highchurch, and it's one thing to be in the same recruitment class and another to show up on someone's doorstep in the middle of the night with an injured dog asking for help. But then he hears the sound of movement from inside and Merle's distracted voice calling, "yeah—shit—I'm coming, I'm coming," and after another second, he's pulling open the door to look up at Magnus, glasses slipping halfway down his nose and one hand scratching lazily at the back of his neck. "You got any idea what time it is, kid?"

"I know, I'm sorry," Magnus says quickly, "but it's sort of an emergency, and I need your help."

"This got anything to do with the dog?"

Magnus cracks a weak smile. "As a matter of fact, it does."

Merle gives an easy shrug like this is by no means the strangest thing to happen to him and nods for Magnus to come in — not a moment too soon, with the dog starting to weigh heavier and heavier in his bone-tired arms.

Inside, the layout's not so different from Magnus' own room—albeit furniture scaled down to something more dwarf-sized—with a low bed pushed into the corner and a bureau flush against the molding, except where Magnus has a weapons rack bolted to the wall and training equipment stored under the bed, Merle has a row of potted succulents sitting on the windowsill and a heavy looking bible lying open on the desk. Stepping around a pile of clothes on the floor, Merle clears off some space on the bed and gestures for Magnus to lay the dog down, the tired mutt letting out little more than a weary whine as Magnus accidentally nudges the injured leg as he settles the dog on the mattress, still curled into the folds of his jacket

The healing itself doesn't take long—Magnus settles himself on the floor and leans back against the wall to give the cleric some space—and once Merle's done, he wraps the leg in a bandage and tells Magnus to keep an eye out for infection over the next few days, absently scratching behind the dog's ear as it dozes easily on the comforter.

"After that," Merle says, giving a slight shrug, "it's up to you whether you want to keep him or not. I won't tell Davenport if you do."

"Thanks, Merle," Magnus offers, pulling himself slowly to his feet. "But I don't know yet."

It's only half a lie, he thinks, as he cradles the dog back into his arms and Merle waves him off with a tired "goodnight" and he heads back down the hall to his own dorm.

All things equal, he'd keep the dog in a _second_ if he could, but he and Merle both know it's not that simple, and that's the thought on his mind as he lets himself back into his room and gets the dog set up on a makeshift cot at the end of his own bed. As Davenport made clear when mission training started a couple weeks back, planar exploration has to be their main focus and all other secondary interests are unaffordable distractions — pets included. And even if he hasn't known the captain _long,_ Magnus already likes and respects him too much to want to risk toeing the line (and, worst case scenario, lose his spot on the crew). Besides, the dorms aren't exactly a big place and even if the dog is down to little more than skin and bones, he's still a far cry from small, and Magnus doubts he could make it a week before Davenport realized something was going on.

No, much as he wants to—and gods know this is a quiet dream he's carried since he was younger than ten—he'll need to find the dog a home that's not with him. And even if he's barely known the shaggy mutt an hour by now, it's a thought that still lances him with the sharp sting of disappointment. Resolving not get too attached—as if _that'_ s ever worked—he combs out a couple tangles in the dog's coat and eases himself under the covers, bending his long legs carefully so they won't jostle the dog in his sleep, feeling its warmth as this comforting weight by his feet, and figuring he can deal with this in the morning.

—

 

He enlists Lucretia's help the next day, giving her a quick rundown of the situation as she watches him with a thoughtful look, eventually agreeing to keep her ears open in case she hears of someone working at the Institute who's looking to adopt. And it's two days later that she introduces him to a quiet halfling tech on the _Starblaster_ engineering crew — she's got a soft spot for big dogs, taking to the mutt with an easy familiarity in an instant and making it clear they're going to be a good fit, and Magnus knows he's leaving his charge in good hands.

Still, it's sad the way he knew it would be, handing off the makeshift leather lead and giving the dog one last scratch behind the ears before seeing the both of them out of his dorm. But Davenport's none the wiser, and Magnus doesn't have to share the space at the foot of his bed anymore, and so he tells himself it's all for the best.

 

—

 

He's standing on the deck of the _Starblaster_ , watching as the ship makes its descent into the twenty-seventh planar system they've visited since this seemingly-endless journey first started. And just like it goes every time the ship resets, there's the stain of a purple-black bruise around his right eye and his hands are buried up to the wrist in the pockets of his weathered IPRE jacket and he looks no older than the twenty-four years he'd lived before first boarding the ship (even if by now he's seen enough to feel several decades older).

"What do you think, Mags?" Lup asks, leaning her forearms on the rail and voice sounding a little strained despite her effort at an easy tone. "Fifth time's the charm?"

They've found themselves on the wrong side of the planet the past four cycles now, watching with an all-too-familiar feeling of hopelessness as the Light falls somewhere impossibly far or out of sight altogether, kicking off the year with the kind of bad luck that spells disaster from the start. And Lup doesn't need to say anything else for Magnus to know she's feeling as tired as he is — that they're all beaten down like the river-carved walls of a canyon after _four_ consecutive years of watching the Hunger descend on its black-pillar arms before swallowing the planet whole, adding another forsaken world to that pulsing mass shot through with flashes of neon fireworks.

They all could use a win—doesn't feel like much of a stretch to say they _need_ one—and so Magnus offers Lup a reassuring smile he doesn't really feel as Davenport steers the _Starblaster_ towards the surface of the planet below.

Once they're close enough to start making out details of the terrain, the rest of the crew—save the captain—join Lup and Magnus on deck, following their familiar pattern of scoping out the planet's surface to get a sense of what to expect, searching for signs of human settlements or potential pitfalls on the ground below. And at first blush, it doesn't look so different from the first plane they'd visited, back when they were still figuring out the rules of the planar cycle like learning to walk on wobbly newborn legs — the land seemingly uninhabited by cities or people, restricted instead to packs of wildlife moving with the kind of careless ease that comes from lack of a predator-prey hierarchy.

But there's something about the planet below that's different from that first strictly-animal society, and it takes them all a moment to realize what they're looking at as Davenport coasts a little lower.

"Holy shit," Taako says after a beat, voicing the realization they've all been trying to identify. "Are those _all dogs_?"

 

—

 

Davenport's never more cautious than at the advent of a planar arrival, and so insists on a couple low-flying reconnaissance runs before he's satisfied the planet poses no immediate threat and brings the _Starblaster_ in for a landing in a quiet glade. And their captain's caution has saved them and the ship more than once, so Magnus knows better than to argue, but they're hovering above a literal _dog planet_ and he's sure he's had some variation of this dream since he was _six_ , and the longer Davenport keeps them in the air, the less Magnus feels like someone who's lived fifty years, versed in every weapon under every sun, and more like a kid at Candlenights waiting till sunrise to wake his parents.

After what feels like an age, the ship gives a soft _thump_ as it settles to the ground followed by Davenport giving them the "all clear", and by the time Magnus reaches the door in the hull—metal hatch lowering itself to form a ramp down to the ground—he finds Lucretia and Lup already there waiting, joined swiftly after by the rest of the crew. Like the habit it's become, once the hatch offers an unbroken walkway to the surface, they all head out with weapons held half at the ready into another brave new world.

Magnus is hesitant as he takes his first few steps on the planet—knows enough by now not to be _that_ careless—feeling soft blades of grass compressing under the soles of his boots and seeing a single sun shining down from a pale blue sky, and the whole thing feels a lot more like home than a handful of the other worlds they've visited.

That's when the first dog comes padding through the trees.

It's different than the dogs back on their homeworld, and that's the first thing Magnus notices — bigger, for one, with more clear wolf genes in its DNA that domestication hasn't had the chance to breed out. And though it's clear from the thick layer of shaggy fur covering a solid set of muscles that the dog is built foremost for living in the wild, there's nothing feral about the bright edge in its clear and clever eyes, looking at Magnus in a way that suggests it's not just seeing, but observing, and taking note. It's joined shortly thereafter by the other dozen members of its pack and whether they're just that trusting or can tell the _Starblaster_ crew don't mean them harm, it's not long before they're all splayed out somewhere on the grass with paws in the air and hands running through the soft fur at their stomach, or playing fetch as Lup and Taako levitate sticks halfway across the clearing.

Looking around at his friends wearing some of the widest smiles they've worn in _years_ , it's hard for Magnus not to feel like they're owed this one good thing — that just for now, they've earned this moment of peace.

 

—

 

The Light falls a few days later and—as their first stroke of good luck in the past four cycles—falls no more than a couple days from their landing site, arcing over the grassy hills to settle somewhere in a not-too-distant valley. Barry and Lup volunteer to take point, and they're back within a week looking no worse for the wear with the bright rays of the Light shining through the seams of Lup's bag.

They'd all gotten so familiar to this year-long exercise in anxiety—of the time until the Hunger's return ticking closer and the fallen Light nowhere to be found—except this time that weight is just _gone_ , and this year happens to be one of those rare cycles where they don't need to anything more than slow down and catch their breath.

That night, half of them choose to camp out in the field next to the ship, settling in with blankets and a low-burning fire and a night sky of deep navy overhead, pierced by stars and the rippling tie-dye tapestry of some far off nebula. Magnus is laying on his back, jacket bundled up under his head and one of the dogs curled up next to his side, its soft head resting on his stomach and body heat warm as the night takes on the slightest chill.

It's good in a way he never dared to hope for from this next cycle, and he dozes off lingering on that thought, sleeping easy for the first time in months.

 

—

 

He spends most of this cycle on his own, going on day-trips to explore the surrounding hills or packing an overnight bag and camping alongside the mammoth trunks of monolithic trees, usually with at least a couple of dogs from one of the nearby packs tagging along for company. And the rest of the crew understand, because it's not like they all haven't had moments where the _Starblaster_ 's close quarters or an unlucky streak of failed cycles have started to weigh a little too-heavy — they can tell when what Magnus needs is space, and none of them object at giving him that room to breathe.

So he wakes early, training as a pale orange sun rises over the hills and tasting the crisp edge of early-morning air deep in his lungs, building up a familiar burn in his muscles and feeling sweat beading on the back of his neck as he goes through drills with sword or axe or bow. More often than not, a small peanut gallery of dogs will take up seats on the edges of his training circle, watching him with these looks of genuine curiosity and soon it becomes habit for Magnus to talk through the pieces of his training routine like they can understand.

Honestly, some days he's not entirely sure that they don't.

And once that's done, the day is his and it's a level of freedom he hasn't really felt since their year on the beach six cycles back. A too-familiar weight lifted from his shoulders and all this time asking to be wasted and more often than not, he'll pick some direction on a whim and just start walking — handful of supplies hastily thrown into a bag and IPRE jacket unbuttoned in the balmy air and this collective of dogs following at his heels, falling in line behind him like a trail of ducklings. And soon, it's familiar as anything for Magnus to keep an eye out for a couple good-sized branches of fallen wood on the ground, dirt gathering into the creases of his palms as he takes a couple steps and just _hurls_ the damn things as far as he can, sending the pack off sprinting in a blur of brown and gray fur as they take off after it, one of them eventually trotting back with the branch pinched between its jaws wearing this proud smile and dropping the slobber-soaked thing at his feet.

It never gets old, and Magnus fucking _loves_ it.

He weathers the soles of his boots on thick layers of wooded underbrush and sloping paths switchbacking down to the floors of ravines, laughing to himself everytime he slips on a patch of soft shale and he'll get three pairs of voices barking at him in this amused and exasperated sort of way — like why does he insist on walking around on two legs when padding around on four paws is so much _easier_. When the days start warming up, he wanders down to one of the fast-moving streams near their camp, leaving his boots on the shore and rolling his breeches up to the knee and wading out until his legs are numb up to the calf and he's got a dozen different splash marks scattered across his shirt from where one of the dogs has shaken all the droplets from its fur. A couple months into the year, the dogs lead him down to this lake sheltered by the sloping hills of a valley, and it's not even a thought to strip off his shoes and shirt and dive headfirst into this water that's a bright sapphire blue and clear for forty feet down.

Some afternoons, he'll spend _hours_ there, his things left on one of the surrounding beaches and floating on his back in the middle of the lake, watching pastel-colored clouds as the dogs paddle around, stirring up small waves that send him drifting lazy across the surface.

And then it'll be night, and he'll get a small fire going and prop up his back on a tree trunk and breathe slow and easy as the neon orange sunset is traded for the bruise-purple color of twilight, a half-dozen dogs dozing somewhere near his feet and hair still a little damp with lake water.

Even when he wakes up with a kink in his neck and muscles feeling stiff, it still feels worth it.

 

—

 

All too soon, the months have been chewed up and the year is coming to a close and it's time for them to talk about the Hunger.

"I've been thinking," Magnus says, feet propped up on the table they're all sitting around on deck the _Starblaster_. "When the Hunger comes, I want to stay behind."

"Magnus, why?" Davenport asks, leaning forward slightly. "We've already got the Light — as soon as the Hunger shows up, we're gone, and it'll follow. Nothing's happening to the plane."

"The plane will be safe, sure," Magnus says after a beat, "but it's still going to take a beating from the Hunger before it realizes the Light is gone. And as far as I'm concerned, _we're_ the reason it's here — we've put this world in danger, and you don't need me on the ship to make sure we make it to the next cycle. The Hunger is going to come and it's going to bring those shadow armies with it and I want to be here when that happens. So I'm staying."

"I'm in too," Lup says, nodding at Magnus and wearing an easy grin. "It's been a year since I've blown up some shit and I'm sure I could use the practice."

"Yeah, fuck it," Taako echoes, offering Lup a no-look fist bump. "I'll stay too. Hell with this big black piece of shit trying to fuck up a planet full of _dogs_ , right? Let's fuck it up."

 

—

 

After the pillars descend, Magnus fights until he can't see straight — bleeding from a half-dozen cuts and muscles aching bad enough he barely has the strength to keep his fist closed around the sword hilt. And he's so out of it, he doesn't see the final hit that cuts across his back and sends him stumbling to his knees, world starting to blur and then go dark.

But he does live long enough to see the Hunger pull its armies back into those black behemoth columns and lift upward into the sky, leaving the planet battered and bruised but still breathing. And he can see the shapes of the pack dogs around him, and knows that he and Lup and Taako managed to keep them all alive, and it feels like the best kind of victory.

When he's rebuilt out of those shiny silver threads at the start of the twenty-eighth cycle, he's still smiling.


End file.
